


On a Certain Night

by ana_m_q



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 15:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21200273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ana_m_q/pseuds/ana_m_q
Summary: House and Wilson visit Porto (Portugal) on a very special night. Post-"Everybody Dies".





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in 2014.
> 
> I'm Portuguese and Porto is my city. My idea for the story was to put House and Wilson in an environment I know well.
> 
> This story may take some liberties with logic. I didn't concern myself on how House could be in Portugal after the show finale. I was more concerned in exploring his feelings and view of life.
> 
> This story follows "In the House" and precedes "One Afternoon". It may be read separately, though.

On a grey June afternoon – not an unusual phenomenon for the city of Porto at that time of the year – two men entered the luxurious lobby of the Hotel Infante Sagres. A bigger contrast between them could not be found. One was short, the other tall. One had brown eyes, the other's were deep blue. One was wearing a common combination of shirt and jacket, the other a leather-jacket above a black t-shirt with the word "Megadeth" stamped on it. One had a shaved face, well-groomed hair, the other had a stubble, and his hair looked like it had never seen a comb in its life. One moved with ease, the other needed a cane to walk. One was dying with cancer, the other was officially dead. One was called James Wilson, the other Gregory House. They had three things in common: both were American, both were doctors and both were friends.

While Wilson waited with the suitcases, House headed towards the reception desk with confident steps. He walked like he owned the hotel. Despite the limp there was smoothness in that walk. Maybe even elegance.

"_Boa tarde_", said he in Portuguese to the young man behind the counter. The mouth curved in a smile that didn't reach the eyes.

"_Boa tarde_," answered the receptionist, caught a bit by surprise.

"My name is George Hall. I believe there is a reservation in my name."

The man stared at the American for a second before checking the hotel registration log.

"That's correct. A suite for two, for one night. May I see your passport, please?"

House removed the passport from his backpack and gave it to the receptionist while glancing in Wilson's direction.

"Thank you," said the receptionist inspecting the passport. "We are going to keep your passport with us until the end of your stay. Would you mind signing here, please?"

House signed.

"Welcome to Porto, Mr Hall. You arrived on the right day."

"_Doctor_ Hall and… _I know_", answered House and winked. A mischievous smile spread across his face.

The young man smiled too, knowingly. "Here is your key, Dr Hall. You and your friend may go to your room. The suitcases will be brought up soon."

House took the key and thanked in Portuguese.

The receptionist watched the American walk in the direction of the other man. He saw them exchange brief words before moving towards the elevator. After a few minutes of waiting, the doors opened, and the two men disappeared from sight.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

"House, remind me why we are here," asked Wilson with a touch of tiredness in his voice.

"Surprise," answered House casually. His friend's fatigue had not gone unnoticed.

Wilson looked at House from the corner of his eyes but didn't say anything.

They were standing side by side, crammed into the tiny elevator, waiting to reach their destination. House started humming a song. Loose sounds danced on the air and disappeared among the white phosphorescent lights of the ceiling. Wilson felt slightly cranky. The long plane voyage had left him exhausted and now he saw himself a continent away from home, on a country he only knew by name, on a city that meant nothing to him. The song's pitch got higher, and so did Wilson's irritation. Where was House dragging him? He had a few months to live, and those months were passing fast. The clock was ticking. Relentlessly. He cursed the moment he had agreed to on this trip. They could be now… who knows… cruising the States on their bikes, climbing the Grand Canyon, swimming in the Pacific, eating the biggest burger that ever existed and being honored with their pictures on the Wall of Fame of an obscure restaurant in Nowhereville… _You did that already_. True, but he had liked the experience, and what was the problem in repeating it? He wondered if there were hamburgers in… what was the name of the city?

"Porto," answered House, his eyes fixed on an invisible dot somewhere on the elevator door.

Wilson made a face but decided not to give House the satisfaction of showing surprise, so he remained silent. He was used to House's powers of divination. It was one of the inconveniences of being friend to a… he didn't want to think "genius"… but he couldn't help it. Of course there was also some advantages. The fact that he needn't have to talk when he didn't feel like it. House understood his silences. And Wilson was grateful for that. He may not always respect them, true, but he understood them.

The elevator continued its ascension. First floor. Their suite was on the second. There was a slight detergent smell in the air, as if someone had cleaned the floor recently. House's nostrils dilated almost imperceptibly.

Wilson's thoughts returned to the problem at hand. A surprise, hah? What could it be? A good thing it wasn't, for sure. Since when had a House surprise ended well for him? Wilson tried to find an exception to that rule but failed. There was none. Not a crumb of an exception, not even a molecule. Nothing. It was a fact, an indisputable truth. Every House surprises ended up badly, period, and he was completely and undeniably screwed. Arriving here, Wilson couldn't suppress a sigh. Immediately, a shadow of a smile appeared on House's lips just to fade away as if it never existed.

Horrifying images were dancing in Wilson's mind: a stay in prison because of some ruckus, to a night in some hospital – and God only knew what the Portuguese hospitals were like –, roaming alone, naked, trough Porto streets… A shiver ran down his spine. He had to be ready and alert. That was what he had to do. Be ready and very very alert. And mainly, main-ly, be sober all the time. This was essential. Wilson knew the effect alcohol had on him, so he promised himself to drink only water that night, even if it was the last thing he would do in his life.

_Ding_… the elevator had arrived at its destination. The doors opened onto a corridor. The two men stepped out and started looking at the numbers on the doors. House went ahead and guided Wilson to their suite that was situated in one of the corridor wings, apart from the other rooms. The key turned in the keyhole and the door opened to a spacious and tidy room. They entered.

"Not bad," said Wilson appreciatively, noting the ample space, the quality of the furniture and the decoration, the two big beds, the high french windows that led to the balcony. "Not bad at all. Those mob guys really know how to lodge their guests."

"At least until the guests fall from grace," said House as he jumped into the nearest bed. "Hum… good mattress. I'll keep this one."

"Speaking of mob… Aren't you afraid of someone finding out that your passport is phony?" asked Wilson while he opened the windows to let the Summer air in.

"Nope, for the simple reason that it isn't phony. The truth is the biggest lie."

"You mean there is a George Hall out there?"

"Certainly…"

Wilson stepped onto the balcony and looked at the little square below. The day had left its grayness behind and the sun, albeit timidly, had decided to show its presence to the world. Sparrows chirped happily among the trees, pigeons flew around looking for food. Occasionally a seagull appeared in the sky. Everything was serene. Wilson felt his irritation melting away. Maybe this trip had not been such a bad idea after all.

"… although I wouldn't dare to guess in which state of decomposition," answered House from the bed.

Wilson turned back and stared at his friend lying on the bed.

"Hey," House said, "when you are face to face with a person with a gorilla on each side, _without _neck, and when said person is willing to buy a trip for two to Portugal and settle you and your best friend in the most expensive hotel in Porto, you aren't in a position to be picky. That would have been rude. And you know how I hate being rude."

Wilson said nothing but kept looking at House. "How is the leg?" he asked.

"Wonderful. I'm teaching it the piano to impress the ladies."

"House."

"It's good. Honest," said House.

Wilson nodded slightly.

"So, what is the plan?" he asked and rubbed his hands with excitement. He was feeling alive again.

Before House had time to answer they heard a knock at the door.

"The suitcases," pointed House out matter-of-factly but didn't move.

Wilson walked towards the door. House heard him speak something and then saw him return with the suitcases and put them on the floor. As soon as he did that, House jumped from the bed with a swiftness that seemed impossible for a cripple and started inspecting one of the suitcases. The Vicodin pills were still there, hidden in a secret compartment. It was a pity they didn't sell Vicodin in Europe. He had to ration them carefully. Tonight would be very stressful for his leg and besides that he, had Wilson to consider. He needed to be ready if Wilson felt any pain. He had to think for both of them now. House picked up one bottle and put it in one pocket of his pants.

"Stay here, rest, have a shower. I'll be right back," he said and picked up his cane.

"Where are you going?"

"To buy some weapons," he answered while headed towards the door.

"Weapons? What weapons?"

"Nobody goes to a war without weapons, Wilson," said House and paused, for a second, on the threshold.

"War? What war?" shouted Wilson but House was already gone.


	2. Preparations

House stepped out of the hotel and into a warm evening. The sun remained high on the horizon. A cool wind blew from time to time. It would be colder by nighttime but not by much. He started to descend the long street in front of him. After a few steps, he stopped. It was a very steep street. Climbing it again would not be easy. House frowned. Porto was not built for cripples, he thought. Everywhere up and down. No place was level, except by the river or by the sea. He prepared mentally for the night ahead, for the incessant walking up and down streets, for the crushing crowds, for the pain. For a few brief seconds he asked himself what he was doing there. Why had he come back? An imaginary cloud covered his initial good mood. He pushed it away with a shake of his head. He knew why he was in Porto. Besides, what was Vicodin for? He straightened, drew a deep breath and resumed the walk. No pain, no gain.

The street ended in a big and wide avenue. Trees flanked the sidewalks on each side. In the middle, an open space, cut perpendicularly by two streets. Scattered along the avenue were people selling food, bread, basil in flowerpots and other merchandise. Everything was ready for Saint John Feast. At the top of the avenue, in front of City Hall, a strange plaster structure had been assembled: a huge basil in a red flowerpot and on top of it a child with a lamb in his arms. House raised his eyebrows when he spotted this "art piece" representing John the Baptist, Porto's patron saint.

He looked around him. There were many people walking around but nothing compared with what would be happening tonight. House imagined the crowd filling the avenue. A crowd so big that it would dwarf the surrounding space, making what was now wide look as tiny as a fish bowl. What he was doing there? He asked himself again. This would be his second _São João_. He had experienced it before, when he was a child. Things had changed since then. The avenue had seemed happier in those times. It had had a garden in the middle with trees, flowerbeds, wooden seats, statues. Children used to play on the grass. He remembered chasing pigeons around the flowers and the trees. He lured them first with some corn and then, when they were close at hand, he would jump suddenly among the mass of birds, trying to catch one. They would run before him amid a shower of feathers and wings, frightened and confused. It had been fun. Now everything was different. A stone pavement had replaced the garden. Only architecture reigned supreme now.

He walked down the avenue and entered a fancy café with marble covered tables and wooden chairs. He chose one of the tables near the window. A waiter in a white uniform approached. House asked, somewhat distractedly, for a beer and stared at the people outside. His mind was filled with the past. He shouldn't be surprise that things had changed. After all more than forty years had passed. A long time in a city's life… and in a man's too. The beer came. It tasted very good. While he drank it, House started to think about the night ahead. He wanted it to be memorable for Wilson, as it had been memorable for him long ago. But first he needed to go shopping. They couldn't go unprotected into the night. He emptied his glass, paid, left the café and headed towards the nearest seller.

\\\\\\\\\

Wilson was dreaming that he walked on a field of daisies under a pink sky when he felt something caressing his nose and a nauseous smell filled his nostrils. The daisies withered and died instantly. Not completely awake, he made a gesture to push the bothersome thing away. The smell disappeared, and Wilson returned to his dream. But, a second later, there was the same caress on his nose and the same putrid smell. And this time both were joined by what sounded to him like a snigger. _House! _Fast as lightning Wilson opened his eyes and raised himself to a sitting position, ready for anything. For anything but the vision that appeared before his eyes. House was in front of him holding some kind of plant with a purple flower and a stalk so long that was almost House's height. House waved the plant in Wilson's direction. There was that smell again. It came from the flower.

"What a foul thing," said Wilson, squeezing his nose between his fingers. "What is that?"

"It's an _alho-porro_."

"And what the hell is an _alho-p_… whatever?"

"It's a type of French garlic," answered House simply. He looked amused by the whole situation.

"I never saw a French garlic that looked like that before. Where did you find it and why did you bring it here? It will fill the room with its smell from the grave. It will be impossible to breathe."

"Relax. The smell is only noticeable up close. Isn't it a wonderful weapon? I can attack other people from afar and be safe from their attacks at the same time. And if I get bored I can hit them with the other end." House turned the _alho-porro _and Wilson saw that it ended in a garlic bulb. A mischievous look appeared on House's eyes as if saying that the possibility of him hitting someone with the bulb was not at all remote.

"Again the weapons story. What do you mean? What is going to happen tonight? House, what are you up to?"

House's answer was to remove something from his backpack and throw it into Wilson's lap. Wilson looked down and saw a small plastic object in the shape of a "T". Each of the extremities of the shorter arm ended in some sort of tiny bellows, like in an accordion.

"_That_ is _your_ weapon," announced House with solemnity.

"What is it?"

"It's a little hammer."

"And what shall I do with a little hammer?" said Wilson with a slight tone of dismay in his voice.

"This." House picked the hammer and gently tapped on Wilson's head with one of its bellows. They heard a low squeak: _tchic_. House hit again, this time harder. _Tchic. _He hit two more times in a quick succession. _Tchic-tchic_, made the hammer.

"Okay, okay, I get it". Slightly annoyed, Wilson grabbed the hammer from House's hand just as he got ready to hit him again. He passed his hand through his hair to straighten a possible disarray and looked at the hammer attentively. He noticed that it had two holes carved into the handle. It was through them that the sound exited. He hit the palm of his hand several times to test it. _Tchic-tchic-tchic-tchic_.

"Not bad. Not as good as your smelly garlic but not bad," said Wilson appreciatively. "It's specially good for hitting bald men or persons who start to show signs of baldness. I'm not thinking of you," he added with a naughty look in House's direction.

House picked a baseball cap from his backpack and put it on.

"Of course not," he said.

There, framed by the French windows, holding the garlic as if it was a spear, he looked, to Wilson's eyes, at the same time ridiculous and dignified, like a modern Don Quixote ready to charge against windmills. Only House could be both of those things, thought Wilson.

"You still didn't say what is going to happen tonight."

"Oh, yes. It's a feast. Saint John Feast. _São João_, in Portuguese. Originally it was a pagan festival celebrating June solstice. Of course, the Catholic Church had to stamp a saint on it. Never mind, the pagan atmosphere is very strong tonight, who knows what will happen," House said mysteriously and then he asked, "By the way, how many pairs of pants do you have?"

"Two. Why?"

House didn't answer but stared intently at his friend. Finally, Wilson understood.

"Nah, nah, nah, nah, no way," he said. "Not a chance. I'm not going to lose my pants… again… nor are _you_ going to take them from me. I don't know what you're scheming but forget it, it won't happen, not even in your darkest and wildest dreams. Even if I have to glue the pants to my legs."

"We're feeling safe, huh?" said House mockingly. Wilson felt his determination weaken a little. "What about a bet? Sixty dollars. If you are so sure of yourself it's easy money."

Wilson narrowed his eyes and scanned House's face looking for clues that would reveal his friend's plans. He knew he was stepping into a trap. House rarely lost a bet, especially one that had to do with him, Wilson, and pants. He thought about it for a bit. He could simply say no, but that would be admitting defeat beforehand. But if he accepted the challenge… if he accepted it and _won_… Ah! Wilson imagined House's face if that happened and laughed to himself. "Not this time," he thought.

"Okay, deal," he said out loud. "Oh, you are going to be so disappointed this time."

House's mouth stretched into a smile. The blue in his eyes sparkled.


	3. Fire in the Night

The air resounded with the noise of hammers… _tchic-tchic-tchic-tchic-tchic..._, laughter, shouts, corny music. At first Wilson had felt awkward for carrying a plastic hammer but soon that sentiment went away when he saw that everyone they met was carrying something, be that hammers in various sizes and shapes – some of them so big they looked more like mallets –, stinky _alhos-porros_, aromatic herbs or plumes that had a delicious smell. Whomever they crossed on the street, adult or child, would hit them in the head or rubbed something against their nose. Wilson understood quickly what House had meant by "war" and he started to envy the baseball cap his friend was wearing. Throwing his natural shyness to the wind, he hammered back and continued to do so happily and with increaseing abandon. House, for his part, was using his garlic with mastery and grace on anyone bold enough to come near him.

They descended several long and narrow streets until they reached the river. House looked at the sky and saw it filled with little lights. Were they flames? Or were they holes in the fabric of the night revealing what lurked behind the dark? Just Saint John balloons. Fragile things made of paper, wires and hot air, lost among the immensity of space.

The two friends entered a restaurant under an archway. A waiter came and escorted them to a small table with a plastic cover. House ordered roasted sardines with potatoes and red bell peppers.

"And to drink?" asked the waiter.

"The house red," answered House.

"Water for me," Wilson added quickly, thinking about the bet.

The waiter went away.

"Tonight I'll only drink water," said Wilson with determination.

House shrugged slightly. "As you wish."

The waiter returned with the food and the drinks. The wine was in a white porcelain mug decorated with painted flowers.

"Humm… this smells good. It's the first time I eat roasted sardines."

"It's the traditional dish on these occasions," explained House.

He filled his cup and raised it to take a good look at the red liquid dancing inside. He drank it in one go. A slight acidic taste spread throughout his mouth. It was cheap wine. He could have chosen better but that one, somehow, suited the occasion: the sardines, the plastic tablecloth, the paper napkins, the noise of people's chatter, the music in the air. And what did he know about wines anyway? He was a whisky, bourbon, rum and vodka kind of guy. Strong drinks. Drinks that knockout a person after a few shots. Wines were too subtle, too sociable. Wines asked for company. They weren't made for loners wishing desperately to forget their loneliness. But tonight was different. Tonight was to remember.

"Excellent wine," House said emphatically. He served himself and sprinkled the food with olive oil. Wilson did the same as he glanced sadly at the water in his cup.

They ate in silence for a while until Wilson exclaimed:

"Oh, damn it all!"

He called the waiter.

"Another wine mug and a new glass, please." And then he turned to House: "I've absolute confidence in my ability to stay sober. I don't need to go through the torture of drinking water with roasted sardines."

House raised his glass in a silent compliment.

The waiter returned.

"That's better," said Wilson cheerfully. He tasted the wine. "Hum… 'Excellent', did you say?"

House paid no attention and continued to eat.

Wilson stared at his friend for a moment. The time had come to unravel the mystery.

"Why Porto? Why this night in particular?"

"Why not?"

"Because this is not the first city that comes to mind when one plans a trip to Europe, because you move in it without needing a map, because you knew tonight was Saint John's night, because you knew what Saint John's night _is_… And I could add your knowledge of Portuguese but that's not surprising in a person that also knows Spanish, French, Dutch, Hindi, Mandarin, and I don't know how many more languages."

House said nothing.

"You've been here before, haven't you? You've been here and, for some reason, you wanted to return. And I ask: _Why_?"

House sipped his wine. "It's unbelievable how such a simple thing makes you think so much. It's really funny."

Wilson kept his eyes fixed on him.

"Let's say yes," conceded House. "What does it matter? Aren't you having fun?"

"Yes. But why the mystery?"

"There's no mystery. I didn't tell you before because it didn't come up."

"Okay." Wilson was not convinced.

After a brief moment of silence, House said at last: "I was here with my parents, a long time ago, when I was a kid. Once, on a night such as this."

Wilson waited for him to continue but he didn't.

"_And_…"

"And it was one of the best nights of my life. I brought you here so you can experience it. You've been down lately. This is your chance to perk up."

"And it's working." Wilson raised his glass. "Mission accomplished."

"Mission accomplished." House mirrored his friend gesture. Their glasses touched in a salute.

"But I didn't forget the bet," warned Wilson.

"The night is still young, my dear Watson."

\\\\\\\

House and Wilson were perched on a wall facing the river. They ate cotton candy. The waters below them rolled peacefully. The old iron bridge on their left stood hauntingly against the night sky.

"Be careful not to be pushed into the river when the fireworks start," he warned Wilson while grabbing a piece of his cotton candy.

"Hey, keep your naughty hand to yourself," protested Wilson. "Don't you have your own to eat?"

"Stolen has another flavor," answered House with his mouth full.

They laughed like children. They were happy there surrounded by an increasing number of people and the night.

Gazing at the cotton candy, House suddenly became thoughtful. "This calls to my mind the time I went out with Cameron. On the day I had special tickets to the Monster Trucks, remember? On the day you stood me up to go dine with Stacy."

"Huh, huh." Wilson was distracted, looking at some girls passing by, so he didn't notice the somewhat venomous tone of House's last sentence.

"It was a pleasant night."

House stared at the moving waters in silence.

"All my women left me," he said finally with a detached voice.

"Mine too."

"_C'est la vie_, as the other one used to say," concluded House philosophically.

"Yep, _c'est la _fucking _vie,_" agreed Wilson.

A huge crowd started to gather around them. Some seized the opportunity to occasionally hammer Wilson's head. They aimed for House too but he defended himself by rubbing his smelly garlic in their noses. It didn't take long for Wilson to become the most desirable target. He tried to respond but the small size of his hammer didn't permit him to be as efficient as his attackers. House watched amusedly.

Midnight came. People elbowed each other looking for a free space or a gap from where to peep. The two friends were shoved and pushed but held steadily onto the wall and waited with anticipation for what was going to happen.

Firecrackers exploded. Lights of a million colors flew above the river illuminating the night, the water and the people's faces. Hues of green, red, orange, blue, gold, silver filled the dark with a myriad drawings before bursting into little flares. The sky was crying light. House stretched his arm to catch one of those fire tears but it faded into nothing before he could reach it. Ecstatic, the crowd absorbed the whole spectacle, applauding with admiration the lights' flickering dance. Some sparks had a more ephemeral life, they burned quickly and died in brief seconds. Others left a trail in their wake like a twinkling waterfall that cut the night in slim ribbons.

House peered into the sky but the fireworks display he saw was not only the one happening before his eyes, it was also another. Another that he had watched with a child's eyes long ago. Present and past were mixed in his memory. The same look stretched through time. He was both the man and the boy. The river, the bridge, the shouts… nothing had changed. He heard his mother's voice by his side.

"Be careful, Greg, don't fall. Be still for a while, son. Don't try to catch the sparks, you might get burned. Look at that one. Do you see the figures it makes in the air? Do you see how it seems to die just to be born again brighter?"

He had seen. He saw. A little light hanging in the dark for an instant of time. Let's slow down time. Let's stop time. It's still there, fire in the night. Little sparkle. So tenuous, so frail. It's going to die. It's going to live. It's going to die again. Forever. He was that light, that bright dot, that nothing, that everything.

His mother's voice faded into Wilson's.

"These are the best fireworks I have seen in my life."

Time had started again.


	4. A Shadow Speaks

Among the crowd, in the middle of the chaos, they walked with a light heart, tapping people's heads left and right. After the fireworks they had a few beers and ate _farturas_. House's leg, due to stress, had been hurting for some time, despite the Vicodin. Wilson was in a good mood, euphoric even. House didn't want for the pain to bother his friend, so he hadn't slowed down his pace.

They had wandered through a good part of Porto's downtown when they arrived at the big avenue where House had been earlier that evening. Everything was heads, arms, legs. Bodies in motion.

House noticed several people, hand in hand, dancing and running, like a serpent in a sea of people. He knew what this human chain was: a _rusga_. He had wanted to go in one of them when he was a kid but his mother hadn't let him.

The _rusga _moved in the opposite direction of the rest of the crowd. Sometimes it would slow down, looking for a gap to cut its way through. By chance, it stopped for a moment near the two men.

House had an idea. He approached one of the people that were on the _rusga_, a young girl with a nice smile. Wilson saw him say something to her but, because of the noise, he couldn't discern what it was, only that some words were in Portuguese. He saw House point the cane in his direction. The girl nodded and smiled. His senses went on red alert. But he didn't have time to do anything. She grabbed his hand tightly, an opening in the crowd appeared and the _rusga _got into motion dragging him with it.

"Hey, hey… House… help…," he still managed to shout before being engulfed by the multitude.

"Surprise!" yelled House. With a smile, he watched Wilson being carried away ever farther until he could be seen no more.

Then, pushing through the amalgam of people, House crossed the avenue and, slowly, started to climb one of the streets parallel to his hotel. He sensed the city moving around him like a single body, a single mind, a single soul. Thousands melted into one. The city engulfed him like a blanket. It was good to be lost in its bosom. As a boy, he had been fascinated by this sentiment, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than himself. That's what he wished to relive by returning to Porto. He had wanted to forget himself for a while. He had yearned to be a child again.

The area where he wandered was old, full of multiple streets that crossed one another. Narrow and long and dark streets. He took one of the most obscure. It was almost deserted apart from a few groups of people. As time passed, House noticed he was walking increasingly alone. The city's sounds came to him from afar. He moved with ease. He had taken two Vicodin and the pain had subsided a little.

It was a badly lit street. The lamps, standing far apart, cast a dim and soft light. It seemed as if he was entering a dream. Suddenly, in front of him, he saw a shadow that stood out from the surrounding darkness. It appeared to be a human figure. He couldn't see its features but it seemed the shadow was looking at him, as if waiting for him. House stopped, turned around. The street was empty. He couldn't hear the noise from the party. Silence enshrouded him. He faced the figure and waited for it to move. But the shadow just stood there. Something wasn't right. He gripped his cane tighter. It was a weapon and he knew how to use it. This thought comforted him. Then he felt like an idiot. That person was probably harmless. Maybe it wasn't even a person. Maybe it was the dark playing tricks on him. He squinted to better perceive the shadow's outline. It continued to resemble a human being. He noticed shapes that resembled shoulders and a head. "But why doesn't it move? Why is it so still?" he thought.

Any other person, in those circumstances, would have turned around and gotten out of there. But he was not any other person. He moved forward with determination. When he was closer to the shadow, he stopped. Its features were still indistinct but he was certain now that it was a man. Yes, without a doubt. A man.

All of a sudden, his blood froze. He knew who the man was. And, for the first time, House felt fear.

"Who are you?" he asked finally and his voice did not tremble.

"You know who I am," answered the shadow with a hollow voice.

"You're dead."

"So are you."

"You're a hallucination."

"No."

"A ghost? I don't believe in ghosts."

"Then you have nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid."

"Of course not, Greg."

House thought about running away, but he felt very tired. Besides, to run away from a shadow? Even that one? _Especially_ that one? No.

"Why are you here,… father?"

"I ask you the same question. Why did you come to this city?"

"I was happy here once."

"You can't go back to the places you were happy, Greg. You should know that."

"There was a time when I thought you were a great man. I was proud of you. I was proud of being your son. Afterwards I discovered that all was a lie. You were a small man thinking himself big. From that moment on you stopped being the same to me. On that Saint John's night, more than forty years ago, I still believed in you. The last night I believed in you."

"You are like me."

"No, I'm not. You're not my father and I'm not your son. I don't have a father. I'm my own creation. I'm free from you. I don't know why you appear to me now."

"Free? You're not free from me. Not completely. You still have something to tell me, isn't that so? That's why you've been thinking about the past. That's why you returned to Porto."

House didn't answer. The shadow continued.

"On that night, in the warehouse. The night you decided to die. The night you decided to reinvent yourself. Why didn't I appear to you? Why didn't you call for me? Why did you spend your entire life proving that you were right?"

Silence.

"Why did you spend your entire life _wishing _for me to say you were right?"

Silence.

"And you still say you're free from me." The shadow laughed and his laughter sounded odious to House's ears.

"I don't know. I don't know the answer to those questions."

"_There are no answers. And if there are no answers why talk about it?' _Your words, remember? You don't know because you never asked. If you want truly to be free you have to pass through me."

House hesitated and at last he said:

"Why, father? Why the abuse, the lack of love?"

"Why the rebelliousness?"

"I wanted for you to recognize me as a person with his own identity, his own dreams, his own worldview. Which were different from yours. I always wished to be a doctor, never a soldier. My convictions were directed to save lives, to find out the truth. If I abuse my power…" House stopped. Something had dawned on him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I am like you. Maybe I'm as little as you. I felt little many times. After the infarction, I changed. So completely that it's hard for me to say who I was before. From that moment on, I was lost often. I thought I had found myself only to be lost again. From you, above all else, I wanted respect. But you never gave me any. When I discovered your weakness, your pettiness and mediocrity, I swore to be what you weren't. I swore to be more. I see now that, after all, you were always my compass, my mirror. I don't know why I hated you all these years."

The shadow stood in silence for what seemed to be a long time. Then, it spoke:

"Son, I was wrong. You were right. You're not like me. You're bigger than me, bigger than I ever dreamt of being. That's what I couldn't forgive you. Live and free me."

And as quickly as it appeared, it went away and House found himself alone again.


	5. By the Sea

It was early dawn. A veiled mist covered the beach submerging everything in gray. The world was still trying to shake the night. Seated on the sand, House watched the waves breaking against the rocks. He was not alone. Clusters of people, indistinct in that dim light, were scattered on the shore. Like him, they were waiting for the sun to rise.

_Tchic, tchic, tchic… _House flinched a little when he felt a Saint John's hammer hitting his head.

Wilson appeared before him, smiling and out of breath. "Wow, wow… WOW! House, you can't imagine…"

"Aaaah, that I don't know. I've a pretty good imagination." The first thing he noticed were the pants Wilson was wearing. They were a bit too short at the legs and a bit too wide at the waist. House laughed to himself, sixty dollars dancing in his mind. And he hadn't done anything much, just had set things in motion and let Wilson take care of the rest. Poor guy, he was so predictable.

"That girl, House… the one who dragged me…" Wilson was anxious to tell his adventure.

"Was a man," interrupted House.

"Oh, shut up. It was a real woman and…" Suddenly a thought made him pause. He regarded House suspiciously and asked: "Wait a minute, you didn't, by any chance, pay her to kiss me, did you?"

"Relax. People here are nice for free, imagine that. If she kissed you it's because she found you irresistible. It takes all kinds, I suppose."

More relieved, Wilson danced a little in the sand. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh… she didn't just kiss me, if you know what I mean." He winked at House.

"I can see that, Don Juan. Where are your pants? Your _real_ pants?"

Wilson glanced down and blushed.

"I was trying to jump over a bonfire, you know, a Saint John bonfire, and… and my pants sort of caught fire… sort of… I guess I was a little drunk… someone lent me a new pair."

"A bonfire, huh? Those physical feats are not for you, Wilson. You're just not equipped. Anyway, in a turn of events completely unexpected, you owe me sixty dollars. But as I am a most charitable person I'm going to wait till we return to the hotel."

"Thank God for that," said Wilson and sat down next to House. "It is as well my credit cards weren't in the pants. It'd have been a terrible shame seeing you unable to bet with me for money and winning every time."

"Oh, I'd have found other ways to bet. I only hope the girl is not already the fourth ex Mrs. Wilson."

"Hey, I'm fast but not that fast."

They laughed.

House returned his attention to the sea. The mist was slowly fading away. The gray had stopped being only gray. It was now white too, sprinkled with some orange, yellow and blue hues.

"God, what a night!" exclaimed Wilson and laid down. The sand was damp but he didn't notice.

"You're welcome," answered House.

They were quiet for a time. The veil had lifted. Black shapes appeared in the sky. Noisy seagulls heralding a new day. House noticed a Saint John's balloon half buried in the sand.

"I'm tired, House."

"Good tired or bad tired?"

"A little bit of both."

"You were always a man of the middle, Wilson."

"And you were always a man of the edge. How come I'm the one who is going to die first? There's a lesson in here, somewhere."

"No, there isn't. It doesn't mean anything."

A tiny beach flea was hopping hurriedly not far from House's hand. He observed it circling the dunes with dexterity. Little bug, busily going about its daily routine. Thinking it lived in a desert instead of a beach. Thinking a pile of sand was a mountain. House gazed at the sky. More seagulls. Hovering in the wind like paper kites.

"All this time I searched for a meaning but I never found one. There isn't one. Me, you, us. We're here and then we aren't. We're forgotten."

Wilson sat up.

"But the fact that you are here, now, means something to me. Our friendship means something. _You_ mean something. Maybe that's what life is. Meaningless in the grand scheme of things, and it's only the little moments that count. People. Us. You were the best friend I could have possibly wanted. And the most annoying too."

House smiled a sad smile.

"Remember me," asked Wilson.

House looked at him and nodded slightly, a silent 'always' in his deep blue eyes.

Wilson drew a deep breath.

"I'm scared."

"I'll be with you."

"I know."

Behind them, the sun came up bathing everything in bright colors. The sea sparkled. Wilson beheld his friend, his profile highlighted by the morning light, imperturbable like a statue. Even if he lived a thousand years, House would always remain a mystery to him.

"What are you going to do… afterwards?" he asked.

House turned to him, and it seemed to Wilson that his eyes shone with a new glow.

"I'm going to live."

\\\\\\\

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was proofread by BabalooBlue.


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